Harden never even saw the cavern but had spent the night crawling
steadily toward the rim. At dawn, Forrester had made his way to the
top of the butte by the same route Enoch had followed, and had seen
Harden, a black speck moving laboriously on the southern horizon. He
had not recognized him, and set out to overtake him. It was not until
noon that he had done so. Even after he realized whom he was pursuing,
he had not given up, for by that time he was rueing bitterly his hasty
and ill-equipped departure.
None of the auditors of the two men needed detailed description either
of the ardors of that trip nor of the embarrassment of the meeting.
Nor did Forrester or Harden attempt any. After they had met they tried
to keep a course that moved southwest. There were no trails. For
endless miles, fissures and buttes, precipices to be scaled, mountains
to be climbed, canyons to be crossed. For one day they were without
water, but the morning following they found a pot hole, full of water.
Weakness from lack of food added much to the peril of the trip, one
cottontail being the sole contribution of the gun to their larder.
They did not strike the trail until the day previous to their arrival
in the camp.
"Have you had enough desert to last you the rest of your life?" asked
Curly as Harden ended the tale.
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